


Firefly Bright

by Poemsingreenink



Series: Sing To The End [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Emma cullen is a bad ass, F/M, M/M, More like the aftermath of sex but it happens, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8593093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poemsingreenink/pseuds/Poemsingreenink
Summary: Emma thinks about desire, her new life and how much she does not want to have an uncomfortable conversation with Billy and Goodnight, but damn it someone has to kick it off.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes palce in the same world as "All These Bruises On My Wings." You really should read that first, but who am I to tell you how to live your life.

 

The first time Emma took a man that wasn't Mathew, to a bed that wasn't her marriage bed she did it out of pure restlessness. They’d been trapped inside the hotel for going on three days while outside the snow fell and the wind howled. The temperatures had dropped causing Jack Frost to press icy designs against window. The delicate whirls and twists glowed orange as they reflected the light from the room's roaring fire.

He was older than Mathew would ever be allowed to get, and experienced enough that his touch left her wetter than the Mississippi. She came down hard, panting, sweat streaking down her back, and waited for a shame that never surfaced.

"I have to admit," he said, running a hand over her bare legs which tickled the light dusting of hair. "I never had a lady come hunting for me. And a lady who came prepared no less! You just about blew my hair back with your boldness."

Emma was tired, but sated for the moment. It was unusual to lie still in a bed without the expectation of sleep, the distraction of her knitting needles or the anticipation of one of Goodnight's books.

"And?" She asked.

"Well, I'm sure glad you did. I liked you from the moment you brought yourself to our cook fire, but I never would have approached you. Not many men would have the stones to try and woo away Goodnight Robicheaux’s gal."

"I am glad to have cleared up that misunderstand," Emma said.

It should have been said low and flirty, but came out dry as fresh kindling. She winced. He laughed kindly, this man whose name she'd probably forget by next week, and she found herself lifting his arm and crawling underneath it. She pressed her head against his chest and let him hold her against his warmth.

"Do a lot of folks think that?" She asked, cautiously. "That I'm Goodnight's woman?"

His uncomfortable sigh was answer enough. The kiss that came after was gentle, and it made it easy to not press the issue especially when he started kissing a trail down her belly, and nosing at the hair that lay even further south.

Emma closed her eyes, and tried not to let the confirmation bother her.

 

*******

  
The storm was over by the morning, the world so white that it hurt her eyes when she trudged through the snow banks to hunt for squirrels.

The wagon train she, Billy and Goodnight had hitched their party to was already bustling with activity. They were headed for Montana, and had spoken of nothing but leaving in their conversations around the parlor fire. The women of the party had graciously invited Emma into their circles of gossip and information, and their company had eased an ache she hadn't known she was carrying.

Before she disappeared into the barren grove of trees, Emma looked for the man she'd shared the night with.

She was glad when she didn't find him.

  
********

 

There were five squirrels in her bag by the time Emma decided that enough was enough. She’d keep the fur. Maybe line the insides of her gloves, but the meat was going to the hotel cook. A thank you to the woman who’d noticed Billy’s dinner was suspiciously more china than food, and had solved the problem by ladling so much stew onto Billy’s plate that Goodnight joked his horse was in for an unpleasant surprise.

Pulling the crimson colored scarf over her face, Emma left the woods. She was almost to the hotel door when she spotted a very familiar figure fighting his way through the snow.

"Good morning, Billy," she called, her voice slicing through the crisp, cold air.

Billy Rocks was a private kind of man. Hard to read if you didn't know what to look for, but their time together was teaching Emma all his tells. There was tightness to his mouth now that she recognized from shooting competitions that ended with empty pockets rather than jingling coin purses.

"You didn't come back to the room last night," he said.

There was tension in Billy, layered over the long black woolen coat Goodnight had physical shoved into his chest a month and fifty towns ago. Grumbling the whole time about how he needed a new coat if he didn’t want to freeze his ass off in the winter.

"Did your realization rise with the sun?" she asked. "I heard no search party last night."

Billy blinked. More than once Emma’s sharp tongue had caused even the garrulous Goodnight's mouth to go dry, but she'd never gotten Billy before. The look of genuine shame that washed over his face was so unexpected that Emma immediately felt terrible  
Here she was again, Emma Cullen sending the good intentioned folk of the world to their knees.

"It’s cold out here," she said softly, sliding her arm through his. "Let’s go back inside, and discuss the worry you seem to be carrying."

He didn't relax. But come to think of it, three months of traveling together and the only time he hadn’t been as tight as a bow string were those nights where she’d come back to camp after long soaks in whatever body of water she could find. Those times when she’d left him alone in the company of Goodnight, and he hadn’t realized she was in ear shot again.

As they stomped their boots on the porch to clear them of the fresh powder, Emma felt her chin lift. It was one of her own facial cues, and one Mathew used to tease her about. He’d brush his calloused fingers over her stubbornly set chin and smile.

_Your determination is on parade, honey._

She wasn’t a worldly woman. Life before Rose Creek had taken place on an even smaller farming community, and her parents had a greater need for her hands in the fields than her brains in the school room. Once she could read and do basic sums that had been the end of it. She'd never complained, but she'd missed the classroom so much it made her belly ache and her head feel light. Her body hungered for knowledge of the world, and had no idea how to handle its forced fast. Emma had retreated into anger, and it became the normal way of things.

School hadn’t been the first thing she’d been denied, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, she’d never thought to question these denials until Mathew.

Emma’d been just like all the other girls. She'd appreciated the scope of Mathew’s broad shoulders from a church pew, the line of his throat as he guzzled down water, and his big kind laugh as it knocked against the clear blue sky. Like all the other girls she'd wanted him, but unlike all the other girls when she'd reached out Mathew Cullen had reached right back.

She knew the word used for women like her. It had rung in her ears clear as a bell the night she'd pulled him under the shade of the pin oak trees, and let his hands undo the bone-white buttons of her dress.

Chasing her own desires under the scrutiny of an entire community had rewarded her with a man who looked beyond the borders of her town, all while gently crossing the borders in her heart. Who touched her like she was important, and insisted that she was gentle even when she called bull-shit.

Emma would wander naked into a freezing snow storm before she’d claim that her desire for Mathew Cullen had been anything but warm, bright sunlight. It seemed a terrible thing to say different about the desire of others.

With Mathew's voice still ringing in her ears, and the buzzing of want in her skin settled thanks to her late night boldness, Emma opened the door and crossed the threshold.

 

********

 

Goodnight was only half-dressed when they entered their shared room, and his efforts had been sketchy at best. His vest was buttoned incorrectly, and one sleeve was rolled to the elbow while the other flapped opened at the wrist. He was unshaven, and there was what looked to be a small line of soap decorating his hair line.

Emma saw Billy’s fingers twitch at the picture Goodnight made. The coiled tension in Billy’s figure coupled with the reeking anxiety rolling off Goodnight made Emma’s hair stand on end. If she left now she could probably catch up with the wagon train. Lie to her one time lover and say the condoms she’d procured had failed. Start a whole new life in Montana, and pretend she’d never traveled alongside two men who obviously had more gallantry than brains if they’d invited her into their lives without fully considering the consequences.

“Emma," Goodnight started. "I should be the first to apologize. We had no intention of locking you out of the room last night. We merely-" Goodnight shot Billy a look, but whatever silent language Billy used to respond was flushed from his face by the time Emma noticed. “We just…what I mean to say is….we fell asleep."

“It was a very deep sleep,” Billy added weakly.

Emma wondered if he knew that the tips of his ears were flushed a dusty pink.

"It was no trouble," she said. "My night was actually quite pleasant."

Goodnight snorted. "There’s no need to spare our feelings, Emma. This place is packed with so many people the walls are practically bulging. Those parlor chairs are not comfortable bedding for an entire night no matter what you try to say.”

"You say that like we haven't been sleeping on the ground these last few months,” Emma said. “Please stop looking like a kicked dog, Goodnight. Your concern is touching, but I made no efforts to return here last night.”

Her confession threw cold water on the churning cloud of tension, and she rolled her eyes at their baffled expressions. Not for the first time, she wondered how much interaction her companions had ever had with women who weren’t saloon girls or blood relations. Goodnight could put on a good show, but she’d noticed the way he’d trip and stumble around her the moment he ran out of flirtations. Billy didn’t even try, and more than once she’d caught him peeking at her across the campfire with the look of a man who wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t appeared out of the mists.

“I feel,” she continued. “That perhaps the three of us are long overdue for a rather uncomfortable conversation.”

Her nose twitched at the familiar smell of tobacco, and she turned to find Billy lighting three cigarettes. Once he had each tip glowing firefly bright he handed one to Goodnight, the other to Emma, and kept the last for himself. He blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and leaned heavily against the wall.

“I feel you're right.”


	2. Chapter 2

  
A thin layer of ice had formed over the wash bowl. Emma pressed the tip of her still glowing cigarette against it, and as she watched the surface splinter and crack she searched for the words that would allow this conversation to happen without unraveling the still fragile team they'd only just begun to form.

Billy was working through his own cigarette at a much slower pace. It was as though he wasn't used to having one all to his own. He leaned against the wall with a boneless grace that looked so forced and uncomfortable that Emma finally snapped.

“Oh lord save me, Billy. Go sit yourself next to Goodnight the way I know you want to!”

Emma grimaced. There had been a reason Clara never requested her help teaching the little ones Sunday school.

She was surprised when it was Goodnight who left his post, the bed creaking as he abandoned his seat to stand next to Billy. He pressed his shoulder into the other man's, and reached to take a puff off of Billy's cigarette. Not for the first time Emma wondered if the rest of the world was blind or just stupid. Probably both.

"Well, Miss Emma," Goodnight drawled. "Which one of us draws first?"

Quite against her will, a smile quirked at the corner of Emma's mouth.

"Do you know how many very long baths I took this summer?" She asked. "Not that I didn’t enjoy them, but even when I was a civilized town woman I hardly felt the need to wash my hair every other night."

Whatever shot Goodnight had been waiting for this hadn't been it. He blinked and-

"So help me," Emma said. "You send Billy a _look_ of any kind and I will- well I will start confirming the rumor that I am your wife rather than gently laughing it off whenever confronted."

Billy made a sound like a wheeze and she wondered if he’d inhaled wrong. Goodnight, meanwhile, looked as though he’d just been told that it was raining frogs and he’d been chosen to deep-fry the legs for supper.

"My _what_?"

"Not that I take much offense to the idea," she continued. "But I have no interest in getting a knife to the back. That and if my mama ever discovered that I went off and married honest to God southern gentry she'd have kittens."

"How often do-"

"There are things that ain’t my business," she pressed. "I don’t need all your secrets, and I’m certainly not about to hand over all of mine."

They didn’t need to know about the nights where she jerked awake coated in a cold sweat. The image of Sam Chisholm dead in that burnt out husk of a church lurking behind her eyes. There was no need to talk about how the glint of the sun off her wedding ring could still dunk her into a grief so strong she felt as though she were drowning. That she didn't regretted the lives snuffed out at Rose Creek, but that buried somewhere in Texas was the body of a man who'd tried to steal her possessions, and as much as he'd deserved the bullet she still felt guilt at how the situation had ended. These things and more were hers to keep unless she decided otherwise.

But in turn, she didn't need to know why Goodnight woke up screaming after conversations with men who said his name like an incantation. She could be deaf and dumb whenever Goodnight went tearing across the fields after Billy who walked in his sleep, talked in his sleep, begged in his sleep. Maybe later, they'd tell her. Maybe not. Not everything was hers to examine.

"I fear you invited me into your company without a fully considering how I would affect the day-to-day minutia of your life," she said.

"There are things about our minutia that some would consider unseemly," Goodnight said. His grin showed off every one of his teeth. A wolf laughing at his own joke. "What you are hinting at would also be illegal."

"Is the law such a bright, guiding star out here?" Emma asked, holding his gaze.

Neither or them broke, and the staring competition went on for so long it began to feel absurd. If Emma were a different person, a Clara-shaped person, someone brimming with maturity and motherly emotion she might feel ashamed of herself for not conceding. As it was she'd jump out the window before giving ground.

"We got shot saving her town." Billy's voice was as sharp as cracking ice, and both Emma and Goodnight swung to meet it. "Even if she didn't like us that would buy us her silence. She's like Sam. Honorable."

"I do like you," Emma said, taken a-back. Had she misjudged him these past few months? Had his stares across the campfire been that of a man testing for safe waters she hadn't provided? "My sherif watched my husband die and did nothing. You two answered my call for help."

"We were getting paid," Goodnight pointed out.

"I only went because Goodnight was going," Billy said.

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Emma's throat, and the sound made her feel more coyote than woman.

"I'm not a fool. Everything Rose Creek had to offer wasn't really all that much," she said. "I knew that well before you two joined up, but I was desperate. You got peppered by a Gatling gun for less money than what Billy might have made all on his lonesome, and you know it."

Billy considered this, and then nodded.

"Anyway, the way Sam tells it you both made your own choices about dying at Rose Creek."

Goodnight shifted uncomfortably. Billy went still, and sensing that she'd entered dangerous territory Emma pushed on.

"You were kind to me when I was frightened, and you've shared your books."

That was the part of their travels that still caused her heart to jump; the books. Holding them in her hands was more nerve wracking than cradling a newborn. The delicate creatures of paper and ink, susceptible to water, wind, stain and tear. Her daddy would have had a fit at the idea of hauling something as useless as books around. Just added weight to an already overworked horse. Goodnight never had less than three on him. Billy another two, and hadn't they just handed them over when they'd seen her eyeing them hungrily.

"Truth be told, it is difficult for me to look upon you both with anything short of affection. No matter how irritated I may sound when I express it."

Goodnight sighed, and scrubbed his face with his hand. He looked surprised when his fingertips came back covered in soap.

"You don't have to spell things out for me," Emma said. "But at the very least we should start getting separate rooms. I can't tell if it's money or stubborn chivalry that's got you sharing with me, but if it's the first I am capable of paying my own way. If it's the second, then put your minds at ease. I do own a pistol, and that should be enough to keep the black knight at bay."

"Knives," Billy said, softly. "Knives would be better in a situation like that. Easy to grab. Silent. I can teach you."

"And I will gladly learn," Emma said. "Anything to keep the two of you from acting like you've done something beyond forgiveness when all you wanted was a little privacy. I am capable of entertaining myself."

Billy still hadn't relaxed, but he did look thoughtful.

"Well, this conversation has been very educational," Goodnight said. "But I am still sorry for last night."

Emma shook her head. "You've already apologized. No need for an encore."

Billy rubbed the last bit of his cigarette agains the wall, and Emma grimaced at the streak of ash it left behind.

"If you weren't in the parlor last night," he asked. "And you didn't come back here. Where did you go?"

Emma shrugged. "I'd tell you, but I'm afraid you might find it unseemly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All and all that could have been WAY worse.


	3. Chapter 3

The hotel was quiet with the disappearance of the wagon party. Like a hostess taking a welcome rest now that all the guests had scattered, and the cleaning up had been tended to. Emma hadn't thought her little group to be the last of the guests, but the distinct lack of human chatter or movement as she made her way to the kitchen was proving her wrong.

She’s left Billy and Goodnight alone in the room to stew and taste the product of the morning's events. She had a feeling that a blowback of sorts would need to be faced. The release of such a well-protected secret could do terrible things to the nerves, and solitude might help them settle into the new reality of things. Couples needed that sometimes. She remembered.

The hotel cook was a tall, thin, pale woman with bushy black eyebrows, and a long face that Emma still hadn’t seen crack a smile. Her wiry black hair was knotted into a tight bun, and she had the air of someone who would know exactly how many potatoes were being stored in the root cellar, and would be very displeased if anyone tried to make off with one.

Emma adored her. 

“Good evening, Ms. Rachel.”

Rachel was scrapping a lump of well- risen dough out of a bowl, and didn’t look up when she responded. 

“Ms. Emma.”

She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead leaving a trail of flour behind. It made Emma smile, but she saw no reason to point it out. Baking was a messy business.

“I brought you these for supper.” Emma waited until Rachel looked up, and then lifted her squirrels into view.

“Those will go well in the stew pot,” Rachel agreed. “I thank you for those, but you keep the fur. I’ve seen your sorry excuse for gloves. Traveling in such cold is going to take a bite out of your hands if you’re not careful.”

Emma wiggled the fingers of her free hand. They were so chapped and raw that just the movement made her grimace. She hadn't been mothered in years, and wasn't entire sure she liked being called out.

“I will. I can skin them for you now. How does that sound?”

She watched Rachel’s hands as they worked the dough; turning and kneading, turning and kneading, turning and kneading until the lump was smooth and silky.

 _I should write to Clara,_ Emma thought as she watched the familiar motions. _I should have written to her months ago. She probably thinks I’m dead. Or worse._

“I would appreciate your help and your company,” Rachel said. “But before you start that bloody business I’d like to show you something.”

She lifted her eyes to meet Emma’s. They were a darker shade of brown than Emma’s own, and reminded her of soft wet earth. 

“Of course.”

Rachel tipped a bowl full of dried fruit across the dough, folded it over, and started to knead again.

“I’ll only be a moment.”

 

* * *

 

After leaving the dough in a covered bowl to rise, Rachel washed her hands and then led Emma into the dining room.

The curtains had been flung open to capture the bright winter sunlight, and a shaft of it created a triangle of warmth across the floor that a small orange tabby was enjoying. Rachel carefully stepped over him on her way to one of the many tables that filled the room, and Emma followed. The cat cracked an eye open, stretched out wide and rolled over.

“Tulip will be up and pestering us at any moment,” Rachel said. “I’m sure you’ve learned by now that he’s a bit of a showboat. I have told my husband cats are meant to work, not to spoil, but he still slips bits of his dinner to him every night. It's a wonder he doesn't weigh a hundred pounds.”

Somewhere above them a door creaked open, and for just a second Emma swore she heard Goodnight laughing.

The table they stopped at was also illuminated in spray of sunlight. It glinted off the body of a round brass map container, and spilled over the paper next to it.

“I only just put it out here,” Rachel said, and ran her finger up the side. “Finished it last night, but it’s been in the office so Tulip wouldn’t rub his face all over it. Figured the sun would help the ink dry.”

The paper held a map, and map was a detailed image of the world. The countries had been inked in colors of pink, green, peach and yellow with careful black ink naming each one. The NORTH in the NORTHERN PACIFIC OCEAN were still wet enough to glisten in the light, and Emma stared at the entire work in stunned silence.

“Ms. Rachel, it’s wonderful.”

“It’s been a project of mine for going on two years now,” Rachel said. “I saw the original sometime after the war. I have a bit of an interest in maps, and decided to see if I could copy it. Now look right here.”

The Unite States was in the center with Mexico right below it, but Rachel’s hand traced west. Her fingers trailed through the Pacific Ocean, and stopped on a small green bit that rested between a long stretch of land that read _Niphon_ , and a mass of pink that was the _Chinese Empire_. 

“This would be Korea,” Rachel said. “Your first night here you corrected me, and told me your skinny friend was from Korea, not China, and I told you I wasn’t entire sure where Korea was.”

“And then I told you I wasn’t sure either,” Emma finished.

She was so embarrassed of this gap in her knowledge that she’d been unable to ask Billy or Goodnight, and instead hoped she’d stumble upon the information all on her own. Now that she had access not just to books, but to _funds_ she could actually request such things in her brave new world. But she hadn’t been entirely sure what to ask for.

“Well here it is,” Rachel said. “Straight shot across the Pacific.”

Emma reached out, and hovered one careful finger over the country. It was smaller than she’d expected, even smaller than California if she understood the scale correctly.

"Never met one of the Chinese personally," Rachel continued. "But I hear they cross the ocean looking for work. Awful long way to come for a job if you ask me. Did your companion come for similar reasons?"

It was a fair enough question, but not one Emma knew the answer too.

She had a fair chunk of Goodnight’s past mapped out in her mind. It helped that he was a natural conversationalist with an easily identifiable accent, but Billy was different. Even knowing one of his deepest secrets didn’t make Emma feel all that closer to knowing _him_. He never spoke of his home across the sea. What did it look like? Why had he left? Did his family stay there or had they all crossed together? Were they even now tromping around the west without him? Would he ever go back, and if so would Goodnight to go with him? Did he even like it here? 

She'd sworn to Billy and Goodnight that she had no interested in claiming their secrets. She'd meant it, but staring at the map she realized that she could be better at just learning about _them_. If she was very lucky they might start to learn about her in return. There was a feeling in her gut, the same one that had told her to reach for Mathew all those years ago. The same one that had seen Sam Chisolm and known he was the one to ask for help, and it told her that if she had the fragile beginnings of a strong team in her hands. If they could all learn to dance with each other they might just be magnificent.

“No need to stare so hard,” Rachel said. “This is my gift to you, and as soon as it dries you can add it to your belongings.”

Emma looked up, stunned.

“I can’t keep this!”

“You can. This didn’t cost me nothing to make, and that map case was collecting dust in the office.”

“The paper,” Emma argued. “The ink. Your time!”

Emma knew about the value of time. Knew how much of it the kitchen demanded, minutes, hours and days devoured by roaring cook fires and sliced up like carrots. How little of it could be left for anything but sleep.

“I enjoy drawing,” Rachel said briskly. “It’s one of my pleasures, and I am happy to share this with you.”

“It’s too fancy,” Emma insisted. “I live on the road! I’ll ruin it.”

“You seem like a careful woman,” Rachel said. “You’ll have the case. If you roll it up real tight it will fit just fine. I do have one request of you. Since my sister-in-law died, I haven’t had much correspondence with anyone outside of this hotel.  I have enjoyed our conversations, and your help in the kitchen. I would also enjoy any letters you chose to send me.”

“Ms. Rachel-” Emma had to stop. Her eyes were suspiciously hot. She reached out, and took one of Rachel’s hands in her own. “I would truly like that.”

Rachel nodded. “Good.”

“Now who’s this handsome, fella?”

Emma turned to see Goodnight standing in the sunlight. He was in much better shape than he’d been earlier that morning in both manner and presentation. The buttons on his waistcoat glistened in the light, he’d cleaned up his facial hair, and most importantly he wasn’t looking at Emma like a wounded dog. Though the last one might have been because he was lavishing far too much attention on Tulip to spare Emma much mind.

“Goodnight,” Emma said excitedly. “Come look at what Ms. Rachel has made!”

Goodnight wandered over with the happily purring cat in his arms, and peered at the map on the table.

“What a lovely bit of cartography.”

He spotted Emma’s fingers resting lightly over Korea and blinked.

“Well,” Goodnight said softly. "Are we planning a trip to the Far East?"

"Just getting a better idea of what the world looks like," Emma said.

"It is a very large, strange place," Goodnight agreed. "Even I can forget that sometimes."

Tulip butted his head into Goodnight’s face so ferociously that Goodnight’s head snapped to the side.

“Careful now!” Goodnight chided. “You keep that up I won’t share any of my supper with you.”

“Oh lord,” Rachel said. “Another cat lover.”

Emma laughed. “Is there something you needed, Goodnight?”                                                

Goodnight shrugged. “Billy is taking a rest, but I’m not in the mood for sleeping so I decided to seek out your company."

“I was about to help Ms. Rachel start supper.”  

“Well, that sounds alright,” Goodnight said. He put Tulip on the ground and the cat _merped_ in disapproval. “Can I help? I am a skilled onion slicer if I do say so myself. Lost my tear ducts in the war so I don't even cry!"

Rachel took Goodnight in from top-to-toe, and then cocked in eyebrow in Emma’s direction.

“You’d be surprised,” Emma admitted. “And even if he couldn’t, I’d say to let him sit with us anyway. He tells wonderful stories.”

"Yes, I gathered," Rachel said dryly.

Goodnight bowed deeply. He reached for her hand, but Rachel neatly side-stepped him and started for the kitchen.

“No, no. None of that. None of that.”

She paused at the doorway, and turned to address Emma. “If your husband insists on joining you I will welcome his help. Almost all my girls were trapped in town thanks to the storm, but tell him to keep his lips on his face. I am a married woman.”

Unlike Billy, Goodnight's blush was not contained to his ears, and he coughed uncertainly. Then he straightened up, gave Emma an embarrassingly deep bow, and gently lifted the hand that had been resting on the map to kiss it lightly.

“After you, my dear.”

“Oh no,” Emma said, with a roll of her eyes. “After you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the map that I went off of for Ms Rachel's gift to Emma:
> 
> www.davidrumsey.com/luna/servlet/detail/RUMSEY~8~1~2526~320006:Johnson-s-Map-Of-The-World-on-Merca
> 
> If you have any kind of map making skill, and are currently thinking "Yeah, there's no way she could have replicated that" then I as the author highly encourage you to not think that. Or just assume Ms. Rachel is some sort of cartographic genius. Entirely your call.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has let me know that they enjoy this weird little AU. I really do love and appreciate all your comments and kudos.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you know how depressing it is to research reliable contraceptive in the 1800s? It's really, really depressing. But Emma is resourceful so she has some.


End file.
